


The fetish of men

by Baryshnikov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Asphyxiation, Character Study, Choking, Exploitation, Implied/referenced sexual coercion, Love, Love/Hate, M/M, Manipulation, Possessive Abraxas Malfoy, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Sexual Tension, Tom doesn't know how to healthily express any emotion, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:34:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25250944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: No matter what Tom does, Abraxas can't help but love him. .
Relationships: Abraxas Malfoy/Tom Riddle
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	The fetish of men

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies both for the length of this and any errors (I'll correct them tomorrow).

Abraxas closed his eyes and pressed his thumb and forefinger to his temple, he had a headache coming on, mostly because Tom had got into another… incident, and when Tom overstepped the mark, the rest of their house looked towards him to give remedy to the situation. Not that he minded, he was good at the job and it garnered him the respect he deserved, the primary problem was how bloody difficult Tom was to manage these days. 

Like those big cats that Muggles kept in their zoos, Tom was pacing the confines of the castle, anxious to get out into the _real_ world and do something with his life, or at least do what he wanted without having to constantly look over his shoulder. And Abraxas saw the attraction in that, he did, but he did not see how it necessitated that Tom caused trouble simply because he was bored. 

He was interrupted from those thoughts by the sound of the dormitory door pushing open and someone’s footfalls on the stone. Abraxas didn’t immediately turn around, after all, it did no good for Tom’s ego for him to think he was special in any meaningful way. So, they stayed like that for nearly a minute, two people aware of the other but content to ignore them for the sake of their own sanity; but despite Tom’s quietness, Abraxas couldn’t help but feel his presence deep in his chest. 

Perhaps it was because he was in tune Tom’s wants because they were things he wanted too, or perhaps it was because he was hyperaware of everything that Tom did because, whether he was willing to admit it or not, Abraxas had a weakness in his heart for people like Tom. There was something about the way he talked and the way he acted that made Abraxas’ insides flutter—vibrate—and just come apart at the seams. 

“You wanted to see me,” Tom said, stepping forward, his footfalls loud against the floor; there was a confidence to his tone that grated a little on Abraxas’ skin, as though Tom already knew he wasn’t going to face any meaningful reprimand, and he never would, no matter how cruel he got because he knew Abraxas had a weakness with his name at the core. 

Abraxas didn’t turn around to face him, but he sighed loudly enough for Tom to hear and stepped forward himself to stand at the foot of someone’s bed.  
“What did you do to him?” Abraxas said quietly, so that excess noise wouldn’t distract from the substance of that sentence, maybe, even so, Tom could hear the aggrievement in his tone and understand that he’d done something wrong. 

“Nothing he didn’t deserve,” Tom replied matter-of-factly, though his voice was closer now and Abraxas could feel the magic rolling off his skin and dissipating throughout the room. It prickled against the back of his neck and on his palms, Abraxas scrunched his hand up into a fist and tried to shake away the curls of magic lapping at his skin. 

“I didn’t ask if he deserved it,” Abraxas said, finally turning to face Tom; he was standing too close and Abraxas had to pause just to look at him. He was wearing only his shirt and slacks, the sleeves rolled up to the elbow and the top button of his shirt undone to show a slice of skin at the base of his neck. Abraxas licked his lips; his heart already tripping over itself in the same way it always did when Tom was involved, but he forced his gaze up to Tom’s eyes and stepped forward again so that he was pressing into Tom’s space. Tom held his ground. “What I asked,” Abraxas continued, “was what you did to him, Tom?” he said. 

Tom swallowed, his pupils were stretched too wide and his entire body was too still, even though Abraxas could feel the thrumming of energy under his skin—Tom was worked up about something, agitated even, and whatever it was would start to crawl out soon and violently tear apart anything it got its claws into. But as calmly as ever, Tom tilted his head back and looked at Abraxas with an almost apathetic disinterest.  
“You know exactly what I did,” he said slowly, continuing to hold Abraxas’ gaze like it was something precious, “or I wouldn’t be here, would I?”

There was something about the tone those words that made Abraxas wince, an intended deliberateness to the pronunciation that suggested Tom had already acted out this scene in his head and was now getting bored with having to endure the reality as well. And if Tom was willing to entertain such notions, then he was getting bold in enacting his insubordinate fantasies, and that was a bud that needed to be cut for it bloomed into a fully-fledged defiance. 

“Do you think you’re clever saying that?” Abraxas said, slowly, carefully, stepping forward again as he did so to be so close that he could feel the heat of Tom’s skin and see the pace of his breathing. With the same slowness, he raised up his hand and placed it on Tom’s shoulder, pressing down against the bone, “because I don’t, Tom,” he continued, “in fact, it embarrasses me that you think you can do anything you like, that you think you’re entirely untouchable—”

“Aren’t I, though?” Tom interrupted. 

Abraxas didn’t even dignify that with an answer; instead, he just smiled in that condescending way that Tom hated like he was something to be pitied and given charity, before speaking with the direct, concentrated tone of voice—the same type that one might use to train a dog to obey its master’s commands.  
“Get on your knees,” Abraxas said, pushing his palm down on Tom’s shoulder—guiding him into a more suitable position. Despite the fact Tom tensed his jaw so tight that Abraxas could practically hear the sounds of his molars grinding together, he complied like he always did, and Abraxas couldn’t help the giddy rush that seeing Tom on his knees gave him. 

“Now, you’re going to listen to me, Tom,” Abraxas said, his fingers curling around his hair, but not pulling because Malfoys did not use violence to achieve their aims; they did not need to. He felt Tom relax slightly into the touch, just the faintest forward-tilt of his neck to press the heel of Abraxas’ palm to his forehead. Perhaps it was nothing, but it felt like everything. 

His father had always taught him to find the magnificent in any room and find a way to have it for yourself—to own things because ownership gave you power—he certainly had Tom; had him wrapped around his fingers with the promises of affection, and money, and power, and all the other things that Tom so desperately wanted but couldn’t get for himself. 

Tom was undoubtedly one of the biggest catches that Abraxas could ever hope to net; that much was obvious just by looking at him. He had that intoxicating combination of an attractive face and consistently unmatched magical prowess that would leave most people in open-mouthed awe. Even now, Abraxas could feel the magic under Tom’s skin, it was boiling up, fizzing violently enough that it was spilling out of its confines and into the air; he could taste its acridity on the tip of his tongue. 

Only a fool would say that Tom wasn’t worth the effort it took to curtail him. 

And often it was a lot of effort, for Tom could be brutal sometimes. More so when he was younger, but the tendrils of violence were still wrapped around him; they twisted his fingers into clenched fists and sharpened his tongue when he lost his temper. And the things he could do with that barbed-wire ball of talent inside him, as scuffed and raw as it was, were horrific. 

It was why there was no denying that Tom was crude in many respects—a monster scarcely passing as a man—often he managed to disguise it under the layers of politeness and decency that he had stitched himself. But he couldn’t completely hide it. And if one looked, one could see it everywhere; from the way his eyes shifted as people spoke, listening only on a superficial level, to the way he moved, slinking through crowds like a snake. 

The violence was ingrained into him. A brutal savagery that Abraxas wanted to say was a commonality shared only by Muggles, but he’d seen Tom when he wasn’t restrained by such things as consequences, and it wasn’t such a pretty sight. The results of those incidents weren’t something that he, or anyone else, wanted a repeat of, but neither were they something avoidable, for, although Tom was largely domesticated, just occasionally there were people that got under his skin and made him bristle, his mouth settling into that line of irritation, and his tongue drawing spells that were exceedingly cruel. 

“I know what you did,” Abraxas said, pulling them both back into the present, “I got every gory detail from Lestrange, and, frankly, Tom,” he said, pulling back on his hair so that Tom’s chin was elevated and their eyes met, “frankly, I’m disappointed in you.”

Despite his position, Tom cast his eyes down and tried to dip his head in a silent apology; he was still on his knees and the moment felt almost religious in its fervour—a devotee with his head lowered before the eyes of his god—his mind praying for guidance. But that was a notion Abraxas had long stopped entertaining, Tom was not his devotee—even if he pretended to be—he was too wild for that, too raw under all that false polish. These days, he did what Abraxas wanted because it was a matter of habit, nothing more. 

Even so, Abraxas pressed down his hand and felt the human warmth of Tom’s skin against his palm; there was a beauty to having such a feral creature under his influence. There was power in it too—a hypnotic sort of control his life had become significantly easier since he’d welcomed Tom into their ranks, after all, Tom was both powerful and charismatic when he wanted to be, and those two qualities deserved to be nurtured by someone who knew how to care for them. 

If Tom had been left to his own desires, he would have been consumed by one at the expense of the other. He would have become a man sick with totalitarianism—a man who believed that the only route to power was through force and violence and the domination of another person’s will, but, fortunately, Abraxas had found him in time to cure of him of those diseased ideals. After all, the man who held the puppet-strings was infinitely more powerful than the man who waged wars and marked his successes in the lives that it cost. 

But with every lesson he learnt, Tom fashioned himself further into someone who was as evocative as he was effective at his aims—it was a dangerous combination—someone both noxious and intoxicating, someone that forced Abraxas to fight to maintain his senses. For he knew he would be a fool to assume that their connection would somehow safeguard him from Tom’s ambitions, if anything, it simply gave them a focal point. 

After all, the throne that Tom wished to take, was ultimately Abraxas’ to defend. 

Half in comfort—the sort of tenderness that he would like to claim was purely fraternal but was so unbearably _intimate_ , that even the most thick-headed could have seen how he felt—and, half in selfish motivation, Abraxas slid his hand deeper into Tom’s hair. Brushing the tips of his fingers over the curve of his scalp and gripping hard enough for Tom to feel it; for him to _know_ that Abraxas was there, holding him

“You can’t keep doing this, Tom,” Abraxas began, using the same words that he always used like this was a moment of reverence and sanctity and every word held infinite power to direct Tom about the course he should take. But despite his current acquiescence, there was something firm still strung through Tom’s shoulders—something defiant that he couldn’t shake from his skeleton.  
Abraxas continued, “I know how you feel but—”

An uncharacteristic movement from Tom cut him off; he tilted his head up, his neck curving back to direct his gaze up to Abraxas.  
“Actually, you don’t,” he said, the words splintering off his tongue with a sharpness that suited contradiction. “You don’t know how I feel,” he clarified, “you couldn’t possibly know because the only thing you know anything about is yourself.”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” Abraxas said, lowering his tone and pulling at Tom’s hair just slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to warn Tom this was not a path he should be straying down. They had a solution to the unique problems that Tom attracted, and perhaps it wasn’t perfect and contained flaws in both design and functionality, but it worked, and Tom was not going to ruin that now. 

“Why not, Malfoy?” Tom retorted, that little flicker of defiance gaining traction; like the cigarette that starts the wildfire, it smouldered longer than it should, glowing red and hot just below the surface of Tom’s skin. He wanted something. 

Abraxas simply held his gaze, just as firm, just as long. “Because you should respect those who keep you,” he said. 

Tom dipped his head again, but, this time, it wasn’t in respect, but laughter. “Why would I do that?” he said, choosing that moment to raise himself up to standing; Abraxas’ hand sliding off his hair and down to his shoulders in the process, “when being kept doesn’t suit me anymore,” he finished, his tone light, bordering on mocking like he was a creature that believed himself unable to be possessed in any meaningful way. 

Like this, they were standing close, certainly too close to be decent—to be proper—not that Tom had ever made an effort to decent when he thought no one could see, but still, if anyone were to interrupt, Abraxas would have to step back fast in order to maintain his propriety. Really, he should step back now and end a moment that hadn’t properly begun.

He didn’t. 

Instead, he stayed; both hands now by his sides, mirroring Tom’s, and holding his gaze. They were practically toe-to-toe, and with their heights being nearly the same, they were also eye-to-eye—not that it was the first time. Sometimes, it took a lot longer to dress Tom down than it had done today. When there was adrenaline running hot through his blood vessels, stretching them out and making his lungs heave, Abraxas would have to face him down like this. Holding his gaze as Tom scrunched his hands into fists and let every emotion spill out of those cavernous eyes. 

When he was like that, it took gentleness and intimacy to coax the anger out from under Tom’s skin like it was an infection that festered there. Abraxas had lost track of the hours that he’d spent holding Tom’s shoulders, his palms pressing against the base of his neck as he grounded him to something and spoke to him in those verses that all children are required to learn. Occasionally, when ire prickled the back of Tom’s neck and dark, _dark_ curses were tripping off his tongue, Abraxas would let him inside his head. 

Not very deep, and certainly not deep enough to know things he shouldn’t, but enough to give Tom an insight that he’d never given anyone else. Perhaps, that was why he was protective of him, perhaps it was why, in those moments when he pressed his forehead against Tom’s, and just breathed him in, it felt like there were sparks careening on the edge of consciousness, and he felt more in tune with the world than he ever had been before. 

But Tom did not have romance in his eyes as he stood there now, rather, he had a form of ultraviolence that Abraxas knew was always under Tom’s skin, but usually nestled itself inside his heart and did not make the effort to rise up from the depths often. Which was good because it was sharp, stagnating, sort of violence that bled red rings into Tom’s eyes and stripped back his restraint to nothing but the bleached bones.

“You’re a stickler for control, Malfoy,” Tom murmured, not making any attempt to place some space between them; having someone’s body, their physical presence, so close was almost suffocating, and Abraxas swallowed the prickling on his tongue. This close, the damage from any of Tom’s preferred spells would, at best, be painful and, at worst, be irreparable—it shouldn’t have got his heart pumping with a sick delight. 

Tom leaned in a little closer, his own hand skating up over Abraxas’ shoulder, “but you’re losing your edge,” Tom continued, before yanking his hand back towards him and pulling Abraxas forward, his sternum colliding with Tom’s shoulder. Abraxas swallowed again, almost waiting for the tip of Tom’s wand to press into the side of his head, or his throat, or his stomach, but no fatal sensation came, and he was left there—suspended—pressed into Tom and able to all but taste the skin at his neck. 

Abraxas allowed himself a deep breath; inhaling the scent that Tom always wore, the one that Abraxas had brought him. It was sweet and earthy and so thick that it scratched on the back of his throat, but powerful people needed to be distinctive, and someone like Tom, who’s entire world was fabricated with intensity, needed to be the most distinctive of all. Abraxas inhaled again, opening his mouth to suck the air between his teeth, this scent was Tom’s and Tom’s alone; another man could wear it, but he would be an imitator of brilliance and nothing more.

But the moment was lost with Tom’s hand raising up to grip at the back of his neck, just as he turned his head to graze his mouth across Abraxas’ ear. “People say it’s only a matter of time before you fall,” Tom murmured, his fingers digging into his neck, though he didn’t use his nails, “before you’re consumed by something greater than yourself.”

“And what would that be?” Abraxas said carefully, his own hand raising up to touch at Tom’s neck, not gripping—Tom wasn’t an animal that needed to be held down—merely touching him. “You?” he said, knowing that his tone trod too close to contemptuousness and that it would only inflame whatever it was that was throbbing in Tom’s heart further, but he was also the only one who could ever use that tone and not be crushed like paper under Tom’s palm. 

Even so, Tom’s fingers gripped tighter, the violence spilling out of him like water spilling from an overfilled sink, Abraxas merely licked his lips and traced the tips of his fingers down the stack of bones that made up Tom’s spine. “I made you, Tom,” he said, the scraps of voice barely above a whisper because this was a threat, albeit a politely worded one, “and I can unmake you just as easily.”

“Can you though?” Tom quipped back, and there was no hint of nervousness in his voice—no shiver of anxiety at the thought of being cut off from everything that Abraxas had given him—instead, he dug his nails in a fraction deeper, before pulling back far enough that they could see each other’s faces. “I mean, really, can you?” Tom continued, “because I don’t think you can anymore, Malfoy.” 

There was silence for a while as the gravity of Tom’s words sunk slowly through the air, and the painful nature of the rejection could be properly savoured.  
“And anyway, even if you did,” Tom continued, his pace slow and his words soft, each styled in the same way that he spat out curses against those who woefully underestimated him, “there are other sponsors: Black, Lestrange, Rosier, even Avery, you know they’re all begging for a piece of me.”

Abraxas _did_ know that. Everyone was hungry for a piece of Tom—some wanted to hold his face between their hands and call him theirs, others wanted to enrich his obvious aptitude for magic in ways that would better suit their tastes, and others still just wanted to tap into his bloodline for the bragging rights. But the commonality between all of them was, they wouldn’t be nice, they wouldn’t care for the person that possessed those talents, they simply wouldn’t _cherish_ Tom the way he did. 

“You know none of them would be as careful with you as I am,” Abraxas said, his hand still pressed into the nape of Tom’s neck, still feeling the desperate warmth of his skin and the shudders of his pulse beating too hard. He should have seen this reckoning coming; he should have felt it in his bones, or at the very least, in the moods and manners that Tom conducted himself in, but he hadn’t, and now his job was damage control—trying to darn the holes that Tom made before he ripped everything apart. 

Not that Tom was making that easy. 

“I’m not one of your antique vases, Malfoy,” he hissed, something sniping settling on the base of his tongue and staining his words, as he stepped forward, forcing Abraxas to step back, the backs of his legs hitting the edge of the bed. He grimaced as it became clear that Tom wasn’t going to trust him to give him what he wanted, instead, he was going to skip the middleman and take it himself. Abraxas took a deep breath—it was easier to let Tom do what he wanted than fight it—and released Tom’s neck so that he could sit down on the mattress, the glare never leaving his face. Not that Tom cared. He only smiled in that cruel way and pushed Abraxas down onto his back

“And, you know what,” Tom continued, climbing onto the bed and leaning over him, his knees either side of Abraxas’ waist and his hands pressed against his shoulders, “I don’t need your hands to protect me anymore.”

“But I made you what you are,” Abraxas said, looking up at him from the mattress, like this there were shadows smothering Tom’s face, blurring out his features, but he could still feel the weight of him above and the warmth of his hands through his shirt. “I _cultivated_ you—"

“You fucked me into compliance,” Tom interrupted, his hands gripping at Abraxas’ shoulders hard enough to leave behind red marks plastered over his skin, “and, as much as you want it to be, it’s not the same thing.”

For a moment, Abraxas was silent, the words he had intended to say shrivelling upon his tongue like rose heads that had been scorched by the sun. It was a low blow. Excessively callous given that sometimes it really did feel like Tom might have been in love with him.

“Do you remember what it was like?” Tom murmured, his hands still curled around Abraxas’ shoulder, his nails digging into the bone. “Do you remember what I looked like, Malfoy,” he continued, “what I tasted like, just what it felt like to have me in your collection”

Abraxas could remember exactly what it was like to have Tom; to touch him, to taste him, to take him apart. He coveted all his memories of Tom; the way he used to look at him, how Tom used to lean on his shoulder and wind their hands together in a mimicry of love, how Tom used to kiss him all soft and tentative like kissing was something sacred. And yes, he remembered the other times too; how Tom’s spine twisted, and how that candyfloss coloured flush curled down his neck, and how he pulled at Abraxas’ hair just to get him closer, and how he wrapped his legs around his waist and pleaded with him. 

“I remember how much you liked it,” Abraxas snapped back, the words biting even though he didn’t look Tom in the eye because he didn’t like the reflection of himself that he saw in them, “and I remember you whining in my ear, begging me to fuck you.”

Tom glared harder and pinched at Abraxas’ skin through his shirt until he tried to squirm away from him, only to be caught by Tom’s knees digging into his hips.  
“And I remember,” Tom said, holding Abraxas still and forcing him to look at him properly, “you coercing me into your bed with promises you couldn’t keep.” Tom repositioned himself, digging every sharp part of his body into all Abraxas’ soft ones; “tell me, Malfoy,” he hissed, “why did you go to all that bother when surely, my unwillingness wouldn’t have stopped you anyway?”

Abraxas just stared at him, daring to look directly at Tom’s face; he wished he hadn’t, for there were so many feelings guttering like a candle’s light through his eyes, all blurring and melding and blending together into a muddy brown mess. Tom was looking for answers and Abraxas was painfully out of his depth in this conversation that he didn’t have any to give.  
“Of course, it would,” Abraxas murmured, hoping to at least leave that without any doubt, after all, there were extensive lines of human decency and an upstanding member of society such as himself—and to be honest, any respectable human being—wasn’t about to cross them. 

But Tom just quirked an eyebrow and let the awful insinuation sit, stewing, in the air a while longer, before reaching out his hand to touch the side of Abraxas’ cheek. It was such a simple, intimate, gesture and one they had been sharing long before either of them could comprehend its full meaning, but, this time, Abraxas had to fight the urge to flinch away from the touch of Tom’s fingertips that seemed to crackle with a magic that they shouldn’t. 

“You still like the way I look though, don’t you, Abraxas?” he said.

“You know I like everything about you, Tom,” Abraxas murmured back.

“Do you like me even when I do bad things?” It was such a childish question, and for a moment, Abraxas was reminded of the eleven-year-old he met years ago who hadn’t quite carved his brand of cruelty into shape yet. There wasn’t much left of that boy in the man above him, just the faintest traces around the eyes when Tom was uncertain about something and was looking anxiously—desperately—for reassurance.

Sometimes Abraxas wished he could leave Tom behind, but that would have been throwing away a winning lottery ticket after the numbers had been announced. Years ago, he had decided to bet on Tom and now he had to see it to the end and discover whether his instincts for greatness had been as good as his father’s. 

“You know I do,” he said, wanting more than anything to reach out and touch Tom’s face, to trail his fingers down his cheek and touch him like he used to be allowed to, because no event, no matter however cosmic or overwhelming was ever going to make him give up his affections to Tom. Not when they had something so… nice between them—a comradeship, a camaraderie, a companionship—dare he think that they might have been in love?

“How much?” Tom said, murmured really, his voice dipping low and soft, almost sweet enough at the edges that Abraxas could pretend to forget the current situation. When he didn’t immediately reply, Tom leaned down further, his eyes watching Abraxas intently and his mouth so close that Abraxas could feel his words brushing against his lips. “I want you to tell me how much you like me,” he said.

Abraxas swallowed, there had always been a streak of narcissism running through the centre of Tom, an egotistical interest, but it was accompanied by strands of genuine curiosity about what other people thought of him and how they _felt_ around him because emotions were still a foreign concept to Tom. He experienced them—Merlin, did he experience them—but articulating exactly what was curling through his brain and sliding between his blood vessels, was hard. 

“I like your face,” Abraxas said, daring to reach his hand up to touch at the lines of Tom’s face; “I like your eyes,” he murmured, touching the skin just below, “and I like your cheek,” he said, as he watched how Tom’s features softened just slightly at the praise because deep inside him was still that little boy who just wanted to be noticed. 

“I like your lips,” Abraxas continued, tracing along the outer lines and pressing into the softness until he felt Tom’s teeth beneath, with the hook of his thumb he pulled Tom’s mouth open. “I like your mouth,” he said, his fingers feeling just how fleshy and soft and _human_ Tom was on the inside, “and I like your teeth, and I like your tongue.”

Tom pulled away. “What else?” he said, his voice dipping lower as he leant back, putting his weight back on his legs and freeing up his hands to trace a line down Abraxas’ jaw. His fingers were surprisingly gentle, and it felt like it always had done back before Tom had decided he wasn’t getting what he wanted quick enough. Abraxas had to wonder who was filling his head with ideas. 

“I like your magic,” he said, “I like what you can do with that incredible talent inside you.”

But although there was a faint flush at the base of Tom’s neck, the goal of flattery was wearing thin and there was a growing impatience evidenced by the tight line of his mouth.  
“What else, Abraxas?” Tom hissed, his fingers crawling down Abraxas’ neck, before beginning to press his thumb down on the base of his throat. “What else is it that you like about me?” 

“I like that you want me,” he said, his voice coming softer and huskier as Tom began to cut off his air. It hurt; the weight of his thumb combining with the scratching of his nail, and the simple crushing of his throat that had him wracked with wretched gasps. “I like that you _need_ me,” Abraxas choked out, “I like that you’re dependent on me for everything.”

It was sick to like such things and Abraxas squeezed his eyes shut. For a moment, he didn’t say anything more because his final confession would also mark his condemnation, but he could still feel Tom buzzing under his skin. The static electricity of too much magic stretching his blood vessels out and turning all his veins to gorges; if he didn’t say it willingly, Tom would force it out of him. 

“I like,” Abraxas said, swallowing hard, “that I’m the only one who can control you.”

“You think you can control me?” Tom repeated back to him like some mocking echo, adding no accoutrements—no questions, no anger, no distinct realisation of that meant—simply reading out the facts like they were printed in Abraxas’ eyes. Tom already knew exactly how he felt, he just wanted to hear it from his mouth. 

“Can you control me now?” he said, wrapping his fingers fully around Abraxas’ throat so that his fingers brushed together at the back and his thumbs touched. He started to squeeze. Abraxas could feel his throat tightening and the oxygen in his throat becoming thick and sticky; his lips were moving—gasping—and his body tried to twist away because that was how biology trained him.

But Tom held him down, his weight spread flat across his abdomen and his knees pressing into his waist. Despite the flickering of his vision, Abraxas could see he was determined to see this as far as he could, that Tom was willing to drag the both of them down to the depth of moral depravity just for one last, violent, thrill. 

Tom leaned down, his body coming closer so that the heat between them was almost suffocating. “Can you, Abraxas?” he murmured, taking his time to pronounce his name with all the gravity it deserved, and somewhere inside his head, crammed between knowledge of magic and his affections for Tom, he knew he _could_ get Tom off of him, but he didn’t want to.

Fortunately for Abraxas’ mortality, Tom’s attempt at murder was interrupted by the scraping sound of the door against the floor and the noise of someone’s footfalls coming into the room. Though despite the presence of a witness, Tom wasn’t deterred, if anything, he pressed down harder, as though to kill him before anyone could stop him. The person didn’t interrupt either, and Abraxas did his best to strain his neck and see who exactly it was refusing to help him. 

It was Lestrange standing with his shoulder pressed into the opposite bedframe; his eyes shifting over them, taking in the exactitudes of the scene before him before deciding how to respond. He was calm, almost unnervingly so, but it wasn’t Lestrange’s nature to be fervent about anything that didn’t directly concern him, and that included other people’s wellbeing. So, his eyes were cold and his gaze distinctly clinical as he ran it, first, over the lines of Tom’s fingers and then over the motions of Abraxas’ mouth as he swallowed what little oxygen he could. 

“You alright?” he said eventually, using that same slow, lethargic, tone he always used where the words all seemed to blend together, “both of you?”

And wasn’t that absurd? Entirely absurd that Lestrange was standing there, watching this, and those long fingers of his were not even considering wrapping around the hilt of his wand? Wasn’t it absurd that Tom was doing this with someone watching, completely uncaring if they saw? Wasn’t it absurd that he was so fucking in love with Tom that even when he was being choked to death by him, Abraxas couldn’t find it in himself to stop it? 

“We’re fine,” Tom said conversationally, though he didn’t look over to Lestrange and he didn’t loosen his grip in a meaningful way. If anything, he dug his nails hard into the back of Abraxas’ neck and didn’t bother to hide the smile pulling at the corner of his mouth when he winced in pain. But that was Tom all over, wasn’t it?

Lestrange leaned his head to the side, all the swaying motions and long limbs of an adolescent still unsure in their adult body.  
“Malfoy?” he said with an eyebrow raised and his fingers tapping lightly on his forearm.

“He’s fine.”

Lestrange looked at him and raised his eyebrow higher—he was the one to teach Tom how to do that, but he still did it better—before moving his eyes over the Abraxas.  
“I want to hear that from his mouth thanks, Riddle,” he said, pushing his tone as close to the line of disobedience as he dared, which, being a Lestrange was pretty far, and any other time Tom might have reacted. But now, Abraxas just watched how Tom’s jaw tightened and he regripped his fingers, this time lessening the pressure enough for Abraxas to take a full gulp of air—it was obvious what he was supposed to do, and he wouldn’t have wanted to do otherwise; other people were not, and should not, be involved in their relationship, or whatever it was by this point. 

“I’m fine,” he choked out.

“That’s good,” Lestrange said, apparently satisfied that no one was going to die in such a mundane—Muggle—fashion as manual strangulation, “I’ll see you later then.”  
With that he retreated, having done the most basic part of his duty of care, he was now content for them to work out whatever this was by themselves; not that Abraxas blamed him, few people wanted anything to do with Tom at the best of times, and this was hardly the best of times. 

As soon as he was gone, Tom tightened his grip again. “You know I could kill you, don’t you?” he all but whispered, the words just slipping out from between his lips like they were some dirty secret. But it wasn’t a secret, was it? Lestrange had seen, and by the end of the night, every single Slytherin would know just how close Tom was to publicly killing someone. So, the words just hung there—useless—between the heaving of Tom’s lungs and the clenching of his hands.

“You couldn’t,” Abraxas said, his heart thumping loud in his throat because he’d gambled on a lot over the years, but he’d never risked his life for the sake of a bet. Other people’s lives had always been on the line—just as his father taught him—but it had never been his own skin that he was risking. Now though, this was different, dangerous, dastardly and it made Abraxas’ insides burn with a want he really shouldn’t have. 

Not when he could so clearly see the colour of that ultraviolent cruelty settling in Tom’s eyes, and he gripped his hands tighter around his throat; his fingers pressing into Abraxas’ pulse until it was the last thing that he could hear, burning in his ears. Was this his fate? To have his neck crushed in frustration by someone who was so confused by what they were feeling that they resorted to violence just to get scraps of his attention?

“I could,” Tom murmured, the insolence of his tone dripping off his tongue as he dropped his hands away and allowed Abraxas to finally gasp for air; he bit into it, swallowing it down, and glutting himself on oxygen and the feeling of still being alive. Tomorrow, he would have a bruise across his throat, and everyone would know who put it there. Such a thought should have disgusted him, but Abraxas couldn’t find it in his heart to be disgusted at Tom—only a mixture of thrilled and intrigued, after all, he had good points, and his methodology—excessive violence—conformed to his history. 

Choking someone tended to make people listen to what one had to say. 

“I _could_ have killed you…” Tom repeated, still leaning over him—a dark shape blotting out the light—his hands remaining either side of Abraxas’ throat, though he raised one up and with his fingers he mimicked Abraxas’ gentle touch. With all the carefulness in the world, as though he was not a man who would choke the life out of someone simply to be noticed, Tom smoothed Abraxas’ hair back behind his ear. 

He swallowed, the lines of his throat shifting with the movement, and he leaned forward so that they were forehead to forehead; Tom’s breathing tickling his skin and their lips so close that they could have kissed like they used to.  
“…I just didn’t want to,” Tom murmured, soft and quiet like this was the ultimate confession, though the final ‘yet’ stayed painfully unspoken, it was there and if Abraxas didn’t want to die at the hands of the monster he’d helped to carve into the silhouette of a man, he was going to have to drastically change his methods. 

But for now, he lay there under Tom’s weight with his palm pressed into the back of Tom’s head, and his fingertips curling through Tom’s hair.  
“I know, Tom,” he settled with saying because even his tongue couldn’t find a way to say everything that needed to be said; there was too much of it, too many years of ignoring the problems in favour of nurturing ambitions. But even now, when the moment to speak had come, Abraxas could still spare a moment longer to feel the weight of Tom pressed against him, and the warmth of his skin touching his, and the tenderness of his fingers tracing down the helix of his ear. He could spare every second in the world if he could share it with Tom. “I know.”


End file.
